


BA218 DEN-LHR

by etmuse



Series: TeamUSA 2012 [1]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 2012 Summer Olympics, Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 16:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3297149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etmuse/pseuds/etmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson just needs to get to London to watch his sister compete.</p><p>Clint Barton has a competition to win.</p><p>Neither could guess that it might just be the transatlantic flight, rather than the Olympic Games, which could prove to be life-changing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Phil

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to xxsparksxx and to my sister for both beta-ing and handholding while I got myself back into the fic writing game after a long absence. (And of course I start with a new fandom, of course I do.)

Phil blinked back to consciousness, confusion taking hold for a couple of seconds before he remembered where he was – and why his neck was so stiff.

He hadn’t intended to fall asleep, but he didn’t remember the safety briefing, let alone take-off; he’d evidently been out for a while.

Something moved in the corner of his eye, catching his attention and alerting him to the presence of a person in the seat next to him. A seat that he was sure had been empty the last time he looked.

Apparently he’d nodded off before they’d even finished with boarding.

He could hardly believe that, less than a year ago, staying awake and alert for thirty hours at a stretch had hardly been unusual and barely been a problem. Now he couldn’t even make it an entire day; he’d already _had_ a nap before he left for the airport. Of course, that had been Before.

When he shifted slightly in his seat, his bladder made him aware of why he’d awoken at quite that moment. And unfortunately for Phil, his seatmate had, while Phil napped, decided to catch a few winks himself.

_Before_ , this wouldn’t have posed a problem; Phil had been athletic enough that he could have simply vaulted over him, even in the relatively confined space available. _Now_ , Phil had no choice but to wake him up.

“Excuse me,” he said almost under his breath, unclasping his seatbelt and leaning forward into the man’s sightline automatically, as if it would help. From the new angle, he could actually see the man’s face; what wasn’t obscured by his hoodie was… quite startlingly attractive.

Which probably wasn’t the ideal thing to be noticing right at that particular point, or perhaps it was more that it wasn’t the ideal moment to be noticing it, but Phil was very aware that there were worse things to complain about.

Like the fact that, no matter how gorgeous he was, the man was still sleeping just as soundly as before.

“Hi, sorry. Excuse me?” Phil repeated a little louder. “Sir?”

And Phil’s bladder was becoming rather insistent.

“Sorry, can I just…” he started again, in his normal tone of voice, leaning even further towards his still dead-to-the-world seatmate.

Not wanting to raise his voice any further – because any louder and he was sure to start getting dirty looks from the adjacent rows – Phil reached out with a tentative hand. “Excuse me,” he murmured, accompanying the words this time with a gentle tapping on the man’s arm.

The stranger twitched away but stopped short of actually waking up; Phil tapped again, a little harder. This time he startled awake, blinking furiously for a couple of seconds.

“Sorry,” Phil said, raising his hands apologetically as the man turned to look at him. “I just need to…” He pointed towards the aisle.

“Oh, sure, sorry,” the man said, just a little on the loud side, as he reached for his seatbelt and shuffled out of his seat.

“Thanks.” Phil slid by him and made his way swiftly to the tiny airplane bathroom, unsure whether he hoped more that his good looking seatmate wasn’t watching as he tried not to limp, or _was_ watching as he walked away.

When he returned, the man had put down his hood to reveal a shock of dirty-blond hair and was digging through his carry-on bag, muttering to himself. It took several moments for him to look up and spot Phil, and he apologised a little too profusely as he once again let him through, volume still rather too loud.

Phil frowned as the man continued to rake frantically through his bag while Phil settled back into his seat. "Are you okay?"

The man glanced up at him just as he finished speaking and shook his head at him. "I'm sorry," he started. "I can't hear you. And my bag has eaten my aids."

And suddenly their interactions so far made a lot more sense. “I’m sorry,” he started, trying to enunciate extra clearly and hoping that the man could lip-read. “I didn’t realise.”

“S’fine.” He was waved off in favour of yet another rummage through a bulging sports bag.

Phil meant to leave him to it, but as he twisted to find the ends of his seatbelt, a flash of bright purple plastic caught his eye in the seat back pocket in front of his seat mate. Looking more closely it looked like some sort of case; it reminded Phil rather of the case he’d had in his early teens to store his retainers.

He tapped on the increasingly worried-looking man’s arm as he had before and pointed. “Is that them?”

His seatmate’s instant relief was tangible, tinged with just a hint of embarrassment. “Uhh… yeah.” A hand came up to rub the back of his neck while he caught his bottom lip with his teeth. Which was probably just supposed to be a self-effacing gesture but which Phil found more attractive than anything or anyone had a right to be.

The man continued talking, almost absent-mindedly, as he reached for the case and pulled out its contents, fiddling with his ears for a few seconds and presumably inserting said hearing aids. “Given how important it’s always been to me not to lose these things, especially when I was younger, I should probably be better at remembering where I put them.”

He turned and bestowed a blinding smile upon Phil as he dropped the purple case back into his bag and kicked it under the seat in front. “I’m Clint, by the way. And I can hear you now. Well, mostly.”

Phil couldn’t help but smile back – although he suspected that Clint wouldn’t find his grin quite as appealing as he was finding Clint’s. “Phil.”

He wrestled with the instinctive urge to reach out a hand to shake; Clint hadn’t, and it definitely could be perceived as a bit too formal for the situation.

Clint did seem to be open to conversation, however – Phil had mostly expected him to settle back to sleep once Phil was back in his seat, so finding him taking pains to make communication easier had been a pleasant surprise. He floundered for a moment to find an appropriate conversation starter. Even a casual chat with a handsome stranger had been a rare event in Phil’s life for quite some time.

“So, London,” he started, recalling what little he knew about hearing difficulties and making sure Clint could see his mouth as he spoke. “Business or pleasure?”

“Well…” Clint looked thoughtful. “If all goes well, I’m hoping for both, I guess.” Phil’s expression must have conveyed the barrage of unsettling ideas this statement sent flooding through his mind as he clarified promptly. “I’m, uh… on the Olympic archery team.”

Which… now that he let himself really look, Phil could see the impressive upper body physique that even Clint’s baggy hoodie couldn’t really hide. “Impressive.”

Clint shrugged. “Apparently I have one of the highest points totals in the world this year, so I’m in with a decent shot.”

Which, despite Clint’s off-hand tone, really _was_ impressive. Phil didn’t know much about archery, much less what Olympic level competition even involved, but having realistic prospects of a medal in any sport deserved huge amounts of respect. “I’m not even going to pretend to know how you earn those points, but I’m very impressed.”

“Well, they… actually, no. It’s not that interesting. What about you? Fun vacation in London planned?”

Phil chuckled. “It’s… actually somewhat related to your reason.”

Clint made a questioning noise.

“My baby sister is competing in the synchronised swimming,” he told him. “Originally my mom was going to be the one going over to support her in person, but she couldn’t get the time off work and, well… I found myself unexpectedly with a lot of free time on my hands, so.” He shrugged. “Here I am.”

“Well your sister is very lucky to have you.” Clint sounded oddly wistful. Phil wanted to ask; he was surprised to realise that even barely minutes into their acquaintance he wanted to know everything there was to know about Clint. But, given the tone, it probably wasn’t a happy memory, and he was pretty sure it was too early to pry.

“Not that lucky,” he said instead. “This will be the first time I’ve actually made it to see her compete since she was about ten.”

“Yeah, but nice guy like you, I’m guessing that’s not because you just didn’t care.” There was a twinkle in Clint’s eye as he spoke that… no. Phil was clearly just imagining things. He was an average-looking beat-up guy with a bit of a limp, no way was someone as gorgeous as Clint flirting with him.

“I joined the army at eighteen, right out of high school,” he started. “I kept in touch when I could, but even outside of tours of duty I was mostly stationed a pretty long way from where I grew up.”

“But not anymore?” Clint asked astutely.

Phil gestured towards his own body and the multitudes of scars he knew were hidden beneath his clothes. “I was caught in the blast from an insurgent’s car bomb late last year. Got a bit mangled, and they’ don’t have much use for broken officers in the army.”

“Well, whoever they got to un-mangle you must’ve been pretty good,” Clint said. “Because if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re looking pretty great from where I’m sitting.”

And that… that really couldn’t be construed as anything but flirting. Could it? The wriggly feeling of anticipation in the pit of his belly didn’t much care if it could.

“You haven’t seen me without my clothes on,” he said unthinkingly as he revelled in the potential flirtation.

A moment later, he realised what he’d said. Even without a mirror he knew his face was rapidly approaching a shade more often seen on tomatoes.

“Is that an offer?” Clint winked, with a filthy grin that did things to Phil’s insides that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Oh God, don’t even tempt me,” he muttered, staring at the blank little screen on the seat back in front of him and willing his face back to its normal colour.

“Sorry, I didn’t get that.” Phil looked back at Clint, whose inviting grin had disappeared under a frown of concentration, head tilted in an immediately recognisable ‘listening’ pose. “If you’re not interested just tell me to back off, I swear I won’t be offended.”

For a guilty moment, Phil was shamefully relieved that, even with hearing aids, Clint’s hearing was clearly less than perfect.

Clint was just flirting harmlessly; he didn’t need Phil actually throwing himself at him.

“No, no, it was nothing, it’s fine,” he rushed out, turning back so Clint could once again see his face. Turning, and hoping that everything that had run through his mind in the last twenty seconds wasn’t written plainly across his expression. “Enough about me, anyway. What about you? How did you get into archery? Do you like your team? Do you even compete in a team? Are you nervous for the competition?”

He knew he was babbling, but he couldn’t quite make it stop.

“Do you know if it’s going to be televised at home? When even _is_ your event?”

“Phil.” All of a sudden Clint’s hands were gripping Phil’s shoulders, and he fell silent reflexively.

“Sorry,” he said, once he felt a little more in control of himself.

“No, _I’m_ sorry,” Clint retorted. “I’ve been told I… come on a bit strong sometimes, when I meet someone attractive and nice. But I’m not one of those guys who can’t take no for an answer, you don’t have to be nervous around me.” His gaze was fixed intently on Phil’s face, like he was waiting for an answer and had no idea if it would be the one he wanted.

Phil blinked. _Attractive and nice?_ “That… really isn’t the problem,” he tried to explain.

He would probably have left it at that, if he hadn’t noticed that, where Clint’s hands still fit around his shoulders, his thumbs had started to stroke gently back and forth in a gesture that both soothed and stimulated at once. Clint probably wasn’t even entirely aware that he was doing it, but it settled something in Phil nonetheless. “I… wasn’t exactly saying no, and I’m not worried that you’d have turned into a creep if I had. This just… isn’t something that happens to me. Isn’t something I do.”

“What, get hit on by Olympic athletes on transatlantic flights? I can’t imagine that’s a common experience for anyone.” A statement which Clint backed up with an honest-to-God _wink_.

It was utterly ridiculous, but unfortunately for Phil, it only made Clint more appealing.

“Yes, that,” he said, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “That is obviously the exact situation I was talking about. I get hit on by gorgeous non-Olympians on domestic jaunts _all the time_.”

“In all seriousness, though,” Clint said, letting go of Phil’s arms and retreating back to his own side of the arm rest – and it was _absurd_ that Phil was disappointed. “I really will back off if you want me to. As I said, I know I can get a bit too intense sometimes, even if I don’t mean to. And I kinda don’t want to scare you off just yet.”

Phil let himself take a moment to think about it. He had no idea what was really on offer here, and whatever it was it would in all probability end up with someone getting hurt. Then again, he hadn’t _had_ an offer like this in such a long time – and when had he forgotten how to take a chance?

“Maybe back off just a little,” he started slowly. “But if you’re actually serious about this potentially being something… don’t back off all the way?”

Clint’s smile spread slowly until it took over his whole face. “That, I can do.”

**

Phil let his suitcase fall in the doorway of his hotel room and stumbled towards the bed. Digging his phone from his pocket, he turned on the wifi and resignedly battled through the sign-in page for the complimentary service. Finally connected, he watched as various apps pinged their alerts – three new notifications on Facebook, a handful of new emails, and one new message on whatsapp.

**Clint Barton**   
_So I have practice in the morning and a bunch of admin type stuff to get through after that, but we still on for a late lunch? I swear the place is supposed to be amazing._

Settling into the pillows, Phil smiled, and opened a reply.


	2. Clint

This was potentially one of the worst times ever to be starting something, Clint realised, even as he said the words to confirm that they were indeed, well… starting something. His time wasn’t really his own from the moment this plane landed until after his last event was done – the Games didn’t even start for nearly another week but he had the dreaded ‘media and sponsor commitments’ on top of his normal training for most of that.

And yet even with all of that, he didn’t want to stop. Phil had asked to take things a bit slowly, and he could absolutely do that – it worked out pretty well with his schedule, really. Even knowing barely anything about him, he didn’t want to give up on Phil before they had a chance to find out if this could be something special.

He’d been a little bit interested even when Phil was just ‘cute guy sleeping in the window seat’ – now that he knew just a little of his personality too, he was sold.

He became conscious of the fact that they’d pretty much just been sitting smiling giddily at each other for at least thirty seconds; if any of their fellow passengers had happened to glance over at that moment, who knows what they’d have thought.

“So,” he said, clearing his throat and taking a deep, calming breath.

“So,” Phil echoed.

Clint wasn’t sure how to restart the conversation from there; years of struggling with sub-par hearing aids and frequently half-dead-or-worse batteries hadn’t really imbued him with the greatest of conversational skills. Especially when it came to that sort of chatter that straddled the gap between deep, intense discussion and small talk. Luckily for him, Phil didn’t seem to mind picking up the slack.

“I think I might have asked about this in that little hysterical word barrage I threw at you there,” Phil started, “but I don’t actually know anything about how Olympics archery works. I mean, I can guess that it involves shooting at things…” He paused to huff a laugh. “…but beyond that I’m clueless.”

Clint wondered briefly how Phil would react if he knew that just two years ago, Clint had been just as ignorant of the competition format. Then he realised he probably wouldn’t have to wonder for long; how he made it onto the team in the first place was bound to come up.

“To be honest,” he admitted. “’Shooting at stuff’ covers most of it. Big round target, you get points based on how close to the middle you can get. They jazz it up a bit with team competitions and splitting matches into little chunks instead of just adding up every shot, but if you can hit the centre of the target every single time, you’re still gonna win.”

Phil nodded. “Makes sense. Maybe I’ll even try to watch some of it this year.” He grinned. “Seeing as I have someone to cheer on. I read online that the BBC are pretty much broadcasting everything live, so I’m sure I’ll find a way to watch it.”

Clint was pretty sure that he could actually get him a ticket, if he tried. He’d tuned out that part of the briefing US Archery had given them after team selections, but the fact that it was even part of the briefing at all meant there was probably a way.

Whether he could cope with knowing that there was someone in the stands cheering specifically for _him_ , cheering _personally_ for him he didn’t know. Whether that person was Phil or not. Crowds had never been a problem. Friends? Loved ones? A whole different matter.

“I’d like that,” he said, resolving to take some time alone to think on the issue of having Phil there in person to watch him compete.

“Hopefully it doesn’t clash with the synchronised swimming. As much as my sister loves me, I don’t think she’d forgive me for that.”

Clint had almost forgotten he wasn’t the only competitor of interest to Phil. “Is she excited?”

Phil’s raised eyebrows told a story all on their own. “I think that’s an understatement. She flew over with the rest of her team yesterday and I pity everyone else on that plane. I doubt they stopped squealing at each other the whole time.”

Clint couldn’t really imagine it. Most of the girls and women he’d known in his life hadn’t really been the ‘excited squealing’ type. And he definitely couldn’t imagine keeping up animated conversation with his own teammates for that many hours in a row. “Luckily for you and the rest of the passengers on _this_ flight, even if I was sitting with my teammates I don’t think there would be any squealing.”

Phil’s face dropped into a frown. “Wait. Your teammates are on this flight too and yet you’re _not_ sitting with them? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you ended up next to me, but…”

Yeah. If he thought about it, Clint could see why that would seem strange to anyone not in the know. “It’s… complicated,” he said after a moment. “It’s not that we don’t get along, they’re both decent guys, really talented. I’m just… still kind of an outsider.”

“Why would…?”

The puzzlement on Phil’s face told Clint that, for anything in his life to make the slightest bit of sense to Phil, he was going to have to tell him the whole story. Or at least the highlights.

“Most of the guys who were up for selection have known each other for years,” he started. “They took it up at scouts, or private school… I think a couple even used to shoot at their parents’ country clubs. They’ve been competing against each other almost as long as they’ve been able to even hold a bow.”

“And I’m guessing you haven’t.” Phil had settled against his seat a little more, getting comfortable, clearly ready to hear Clint’s story, however long or short it happened to be.

Clint snorted. “Yeah, not so much. My first proper competition was in 2010.”

He could see Phil’s eyes widen at that.

“Yes, 2010, as in two years ago,” he confirmed. “Until then I barely even knew serious archery competitions existed. It’s all been kind of a whirlwind for me, and that hasn’t really left time for making nice with the guys I’m up against.” He was pretty sure he could probably be pretty good friends with some of them if they just had the chance to try, but he didn’t really know how to engineer that chance.

“So if you weren’t doing it competitively before, how did you get into archery? And how did you end up on the US team?” Phil prompted.

And this was it. “Well, that’s a bit of a weird story. I was actually… in the circus.”

He paused to see how Phil took that, but he just nodded slightly and waited, an expectant expression on his face. Which was a far calmer reaction than Clint had expected; a far calmer reaction than he’d had from anyone else he’d told about his past since becoming an ‘athlete’.

“Yeah, my brother and I basically ran away to the circus when I was… eleven or twelve, I think. There was a guy there who’d been doing a trick archery act for years but he was getting on a bit and was looking to settle down and retire somewhere, so he took me on as a sort of apprentice. I took over the act when he left and… that was pretty much my life for the next decade or so until a guy from US Archery happened to bring his kids to a show and… turned my life upside-down. And voilà!” He finished with a flourish of his hand.

“They used to call me ‘Hawkeye: Greatest Marksman in the World’,” he added, before he could let himself dwell on all the things he was leaving out of the story; the endless money worries, the fights, the cold, cold winters. Barney.

If Phil could tell there were things he was holding back, he didn’t push him on it. “So the rest of it I can pretty much get, but… you literally _ran away to the circus_? Really? I thought that was just something little kids said they wanted to do when their parents wouldn’t let them eat ice cream for dinner.”

Clint shrugged. “Well, by that point my parents were long dead – not that they’d been great to start with from what little I remember – and, well. There aren’t a whole lot of foster homes out there willing to put up with both an uncontrollable teen _and_ a deaf pre-teen. And the state wasn’t quite so picky about what went on in their orphanages. When the circus came to town, we figured it was worth a shot.”

Or, well, Barney had. And back then Barney had been pretty much the only constant in Clint’s life. If Barney thought something was a good idea, Clint wasn’t going to argue.

“And was it?” Phil asked softly, his eyes warm.

Clint had to stop and think. It wasn’t a question anyone had asked him before; it wasn’t a question he’d ever asked _himself_ before. Would his life have been different if he’d stayed at the orphanage – with or without Barney? Definitely. But would it have been better? Would it have been _worse_? He knew objectively that there was no way of knowing, but it gave him pause.

“I’m happy with my life,” he said eventually, nodding. “Maybe in some ways might life might have been better if I’d made a different decision that day, but I wouldn’t be who I am now, where I am now, any other way. And today, I’m happy with my life. I wouldn’t change it.”

He realised the truth of the words as he said them; he’d dealt with a lot of crap in his time, but right now, right this moment, his life was pretty damn good.

Phil yawned and then immediately looked horrified with himself. “God, I’m sorry. I promise it’s not you. It’s…”

“It’s okay, Phil,” Clint interrupted. “Really.”

Phil cut himself off in the middle of another yawn. “I’m still sorry though. I’ve only been out of the hospital for a month, and I guess I still tire easily. Heh.”

“Phil.” Clint looked at his watch, actually surprised by what he found. “It’s well past 1am back in Denver. Even if you weren’t just out of hospital….” Personally Clint thought Phil was doing really well if he’d only been out for weeks after something that required a hospital stay that long. “… you’d be perfectly normal to want some sleep right now.”

Phil took a deep breath and melted into his seat. “Well I just want to say that if it was up to me? I’d talk to you all night.” His eyes were already drifting closed by the time he finished the sentence.

Clint nudged him back properly into his seat and grabbed the little airline blanket from where it had been scrunched up between them, tossing it haphazardly over Phil’s sleeping form.

“And if it was up to me,” he murmured. “We’d have all the time in the world.”

**

Clint had been antsy ever since re-uniting with his teammates and the head coach at the luggage carousel at Heathrow. Fidgeted all the way through their escorted journey to the athletes’ village and the outline of the next few days’ itinerary their coach had given them upon arrival.

The moment they’d been dismissed, he’d pulled his phone from his pocket and fired up the wifi. There was still a brief gap in his schedule the following afternoon, and he had an important message to send.

He busied himself with checking over his equipment after that – he hadn’t yet brought himself to trust anyone else with it, and besides, it gave him something to do other than wait.

Half an hour later, his phone buzzed on the table.

**Phil Coulson  
** _I can’t wait._

**Author's Note:**

> There will be more in this universe. Just as soon as I manage to actually get more coherent thoughts onto paper.


End file.
